Page 15 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
I glance sideways and Bernadi has his hands clasped, both forearms leaning on the table, his focus exclusively on our conversation. My gaze drops to his shirt sleeves which have been rolled up revealing thick, corded arms heavily inked all over. I catch what looks like an image of barbed wire curling around his wrists.
I swallow in surprise. I’ve only met Bernadi once—although ‘met’ isn’t perhaps the right word. But, because I’ve unwittingly recalled that memory more times than I’d like to admit, I picture him as a walking suit. So, I’m slightly shocked to see he has actual skin under there. Actualinkedskin. A shiver ghosts down my spine and I turn away quickly to catch my breath. Hatred sure works in funny ways.
Out of habit, I swipe open my phone and check through my social feeds. I never post anything myself and I rarely take notice of anyone else’s feed to be honest. I hate to admit it to myself but I half-hope I see something from Fed. I don’t know how I’d feel if I did see a post from him—it would only confirm I don’tmean anything to him—but I do want to know he’s okay.
Nothing appears in my feed. I check his accounts. Still nothing. My chest weakens so I make my excuses and return to the lounger by the pool.
I manage to avoid Bernadi for the rest of the evening, but when it’s time to head home, my aunt, Sera and I are confronted with the problem of getting my dead-to-the-world younger sister into the waiting car. Usually, between us, we manage to carry her, and tonight I don’t see any reason why we can’t again. Until Bernadi steps in like the rude, presumptuous asshole he is.
“I’ll carry her.”
He strides toward us, pushing his already rolled sleeves even further up his biceps. The urge to stare forces me to look away as I snap, “We would have managed just fine.”
He lifts Bambi like she’s a puff of air and turns slowly to rest his gaze on me. And now I can’t look away. It’s the same expression as the one I recall during those restless evenings lying alone in bed that I would never recount to another living soul.
Bronze eyes, heated gaze,unaffected.
Then he drags his gaze over me from the corners of my eyes to the painted nails of my toes and bites out, “You of all people shouldn’t be settling for ‘fine.’”
I’m too angry at his mere existence to decipher any meaning behind his words, but shamefully, they cause aball of heat to bloom in my stomach before descending to a point between my legs.
I straighten my back and flatten my shoulders. There’s really only one thing for it. I need to stay as far away from this man as is humanly possible. Otherwise the only way out from beneath his dark stare is to murder him myself.
Contessa
Six months later
I smile triumphantly as the studio comes into view. I took a different route this morning. I’ve gotten used to the guy who follows me, but some days I don’t desire the company, and I also kind of like outwitting him.
I still haven’t seen his face. He always keeps enough of a distance that I can’t make out any defining characteristics, other than that he’s maybe six feet tall and skinny.
Some might say three years is a long time to be followed by a stranger but he’s never come too close or given me a grave reason to fearhim. There are just some days I would like a little privacy on my walk to the studio.
My eyes narrow as I get closer because something about the street seems different. I’m almost opposite the studio, standing outside what used to be an empty retail unit. It isn’t empty anymore. It’s a barbershop. And it’s already buzzing at eleven a.m.
I pause for a few seconds. It’s nice to see a little more life on this street, and having more people around when I come and go might make it feel safer. Before crossing the road, I turn my head to check for traffic—it would be a damn shame to survive a stalker for three years only to get run over by a bus.
There are no vehicles heading my way, but a tall, thin figure catches the corner of my eye, making my stomach drop. Before I have a chance to stop and verify that it is indeed my stalker, I hit a wall.
I spin around and instantly forget the skinny man strolling toward me from about two hundred yards behind, because it isn’t a wall I just walked into, it is something with harsher edges and potentially even less character.
Damn Benito Bernadi.
It was only a few months ago I stood on Cristiano’s terrace and watched Bernadi carry my little sister out to the waiting car—the day I resolved to stay well away from this man—so I’m beyond annoyed that he’s ruined my run of avoidance.
I reluctantly lift my lids and glide a bored gaze up to his. “You did that on purpose.”
He looks down at me as though he doesn’t care a dime what I think he just did.
“You weren’t standing there a second ago,” I continue, accusingly. “You stepped in front of me.”
His left brow twitches. “You weren’t standing in that spot on the sidewalk a second ago.Youstepped in front ofme.” He strokes a thumb across his bottom lip. “Andyou were looking the other way.”
Something heats up inside my chest so fast I feel like a pot about to boil over. How is it possible a person can get me so riled up in just a few breaths?
My lip curls into a sneer. “What are you doing here, anyway? Come to shut downanotherbusiness?”
Just a year ago I wouldn’t have dreamed of speaking to any man in this way, let alone the consigliere to New York’s ruling family. But now that my sister is the most important person in the world to the city’s don—who just happens to be Bernadi’s boss—I know I can get away with it.
